


Duty and Honour

by sanity_not_in_tact



Category: Nikolai Series - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Duty, Love, Lust, Multi, Rating May Change, Secrets, Warnings May Change, You're Welcome, a fact which might become obvious but who knows, about what might happen over the 20 years after the end of King of Scars, also LGBT+ fiction loves to leave out the T, but it does make a lot of assumptions, but with more polyamory, i havent read the grisha trilogy, if a common or serious trigger comes up i will also tag it, if content warnings are necessary they will be in the chapter notes at the start, not an au, so i'm here to put it back in, some real dramatic russian drama style shit, this is about uhhh, you know
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:41:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22471975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanity_not_in_tact/pseuds/sanity_not_in_tact
Summary: The life of kings and queens demands sacrifice – of freedom, of anonymity, of trivial pursuits such as love and personal expression.The new heir to the throne of Ravka is soon to come of age, and consequently face new challenges both in politics and private matters – it is terribly dangerous, yet nearly unavoidable, to allow the two worlds to intertwine.King Nikolai knows this more than anyone, yet he must prepare the person most dear to him – his own child – for the high demands of ruling a nation perpetually in turmoil.
Relationships: Nikolai Lantsov/OFC, Nikolai Lantsov/OFC/Zoya Nazyalensky, Nikolai Lantsov/Zoya Nazyalensky, Zoya Nazyalensky/OFC
Kudos: 5





	1. The Shy Prince

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This first chapter misgenders a trans person consistently throughout. This is because it isn't yet obvious that the character is trans, and it's written from the perspective of someone who doesn't know. 
> 
> This may make some people uncomfortable, especially other trans people. I won't change it, because I think it's necessary for conveying the challenge the main character faces being a closeted trans person and for storytelling. If it's any consolation, I'm not cisgender myself.
> 
> Only content warning I can think of for this chapter is alcohol and drunkenness is mentioned. Do let me know if you have any special CW tagging requests or if you notice any obvious things that I've missed.

Fleeting as they may be, times of peace and prosperity are a relief beyond measure. Zoya is always prepared for war, but that doesn’t mean she can’t enjoy a break from her usual demanding duties when Ravka is in recovery. Ravka’s borders protected, her army rebuilt, and her church energised by the appointment of a new High Priest, Zoya can sleep easy for a time until a new threat inevitably rears its bloody head.

Over the two decades past, Zoya’s disposition has somewhat mellowed. She still has a reputation for being strict, unkind and unforgiving. But much of the rage which ruled her in her youth has been put on a leash. Nevertheless, she is no fun at parties.

She raps her fingers against the cool metal of her wine goblet as wives of the court chatter in a small gathering around her. Thanks to the head of height she has on the women in her company, she is able to keep a keen eye on the guests dancing and eating and drinking and making an impressive mess of the great hall. Candle wax has begun to build to a point that it’s dripping onto the marble floor and one of the musicians has managed to bump into a gas lamp. He frantically swats the flames and even from such a distance, Zoya can read the nervous apologies on his lips. She catches the attention of a young Grisha in training by snapping her fingers and jolts her head in the direction of the flames pointedly.

Zoya resists the urge to grimace rudely as a drunken lady leans heavily on her shoulder, giggling and raising her voice inappropriately high. “Our King should have had this place fitted for electric lighting years ago, would not you agree?”

Zoya subtly shoves the woman off her arm, “The King is fascinated by new technologies, however the young Grisha in training appear to disrupt electric currents. The last set we had installed were blown due to the throes of a tantrum.”

The woman snorts and doubles over with laughter. A friend who had linked arms with her is thrown off balance and spills wine all over her gown. “Ella!” She says, laughing, “I think that’s enough wine for us both.”

Zoya rolls her eyes and excuses herself.

As she walks about the room, she catches the eyes of the court and of men of church alike. Her beauty is not the thing which wins their attention anymore, although it has not diminished with age. Rather, she has earned herself the reputation of a legend. The _Undead Saint_ , the people jokingly call her, for she has survived threats which should reasonably have killed her and she is by far the most powerful Grisha alive – that anybody knows of. She is also a key figure in the liberation of Grisha who were held prisoner for the sake of cruel experiments and the development of weapons in Fjerda. Although she had little to do with the operation itself, she is famously associated with it due to her part in the policies which severed all alliances between Ravka and Fjerda following the liberation.

Stories which were badly reported and blown out of proportion a decade and a half since, but her reputation has stuck.

She catches sight of the heir to the throne, as he descends the stairs from the balcony which leads out from the west wing. She is relieved to see that he has been bathed, groomed and dressed appropriately. Mere hours ago, he had been in a state which would be unfit for the public eye – overgrown beard, sunburnt skin still peeling off his forehead, matts in his hair and smelling of the sea. Now he’s cleaned up and dressed in a fine, cream coloured three-piece with gold stitching in the seams. Nikolai descends behind him and the crowd hushes and bends into a bow. He stops half-way down the stairs and leans over the railing to address the crowd.

“All rise and be merry! After drinks, we shall gather to hear from Hannah Zavrazin, the first woman ever to be High Priest, and I will say a few words. As you were,” He waves at the crowd with his usual charm and his son plasters on the best approximation of a polite smile he can manage. The festivities resume.

Zoya doesn’t entirely agree with what sort of behaviour Nikolai permits of his son. At present, he remains stuck to his father’s side. At a function like this, the young Prince will be expected to socialise and mingle with the guests, not to shadow the King all evening. The Prince lacks his father’s gifts in the realm of hosting parties and pleasing his guests, but Zoya isn’t the sort to take pity on him. She makes her way over to the two men now, intending to separate the Prince from his father and drag him over to the court officials, lords, ministers and men of church which he will be expected to greet before the crowd is organised and put to order for the speech from Zavrazin.

The Prince sees her approach at the last minute, and puts down his drink as if to flee, but Zoya grips his hand before he has the chance, bending to kiss his knuckles to disguise her intent. She offers the king a deep curtsy.

“Nik, I’m taking him,” She says, out of earshot of any other guests. She studies the Prince’s appearance properly, “Get him a new stylist. His hair is too long.”

Nikolai chuckles, and Zoya doesn’t miss the apologetic glance he offers his son, “Very well. Watch how much he drinks, he fancies he has the tolerance of a sailor, and that may be, but the bar is set a little higher in present company.”

The Prince clearly feels sorry for himself, coiling in on himself like a kicked puppy. Zoya links arms with him and tugs him along. She peers down at him past her nose, coldly. “You’re nearly twenty, your highness. Try at least to assure our guests that you don’t need a chaperone.”

He lifts his chin obediently, “I do not possess my father’s natural talents for-“

“Spare me. Your father was not born a charmer, he cultivated his skill at an age you have long since surpassed. Take it from me, you’d do better to follow the advice of those who have no patience for your self-pity act, than letting your father coddle you onto the throne.”

He falls silent at that. Zoya does not waste time reading his expression. She leads him over to a congregation of Priests milling by the fruit plate and releases his arm.

The Prince appears to panic, like he’s lost his tether as he drifts at sea. Zoya greets one of the few women amongst the party of Priests and turns her attention away from the Prince. From here, he is on his own.

-

Zavrazin made the sort of speech which could be expected of her – gracious acceptance of her new role in the church, words of hope for prosperity in the years to come, acknowledging a few key figures who mentored and inspired her, gracious thanks for the efforts the King expended for this evening’s celebrations and a verse which is believed to be a paraphrase of something Sankt Petyr said hundreds of years ago. Etcetera.

Zoya struggled to keep her posture upright and her expression open and friendly for the duration. Then Nikolai said a few words of congratulations. As usual, he had a way of instilling in his audience a hope for the future of Ravka – her crown, military, economy and church. His charm had the crowd buzzing with laughter on more than one occasion.

His son stood in his shadow for his father’s speech, as would be expected of him. His stance was stiff, poorly concealing his discomfort, until he offered a few words once Nikolai had spoken. His voice was projected well and didn’t waver. Zoya can at least give him that.

The crowd is now dispersed once again. The music has taken a mellow turn and the dancing has stopped. A few guests are already dallying at the door and new plates of sweet baked goods and dessert wines sit on the long food table and surf the crowd atop the staff’s trays. The Prince is swimming aimlessly in the sea of people, at a loss without the order of factions the guests assumed at the start of the evening. Zoya rolls her eyes but lets him be.

Nikolai is at his wife’s side. She looks beautiful in the warm candlelight. She wears white. Zoya wonders at how she has managed to keep her finely laced gown clear of wine stains and the like throughout the course of the evening. Her hair has begun to unravel, but it only adds to her charm. Locks spill out over her shoulders and wisps of her fringe frame her face, rosy with excitement and the new sweaty heat which fills the great hall. Zoya’s eyes linger a moment on Nikolai’s features. He gazes lovingly at the Queen Consort, a fond smile playing at the corners of his lips. Even as the couple approach middle age, they make quite the picture. Zoya shakes out of her reverie as the Prince appears at her side.

“I don’t know how he does it,” he says, gazing at the King, “I am exhausted, and I hear that the crowd won’t be herded out the door for another two hours at least.”

Zoya thinks on her reply for a moment. “It doesn’t come naturally to me, either. He has always impressed me with his stamina, especially when it comes to matters of diplomacy. He isn’t bad with a blade, either.”

The Prince laughs, “I imagine he isn’t quite as skilled at combat as he might have been at my age.”

Zoya shrugs, “He fought his battles, and now he is settled with a family. I suppose he should have the liberty to soften around the edges a little.”

While the Prince is looking elsewhere, Zoya takes a moment to examine him. He shows some subtle signs of his exhaustion, but she can see the determination not to lose his composure in the set of his jaw and his stiff posture. Zoya can only hope that the boy’s love of philosophy will spare him an early death from the sheer stress of his reign. Nikolai is strong-willed. Not everybody is cut out for a life of little sleep or free time. Whatever criticisms she might have, she is glad that the Prince was raised, unconventionally, by the King himself. Perhaps some of Nikolai’s sense of duty and drive for self-improvement has passed down to his son.

Even so, he could have done with a tighter leash. Only yesterday, the young Prince returned to the palace from a long trip in the company of commoners. Zoya recalls Nikolai’s days posing as a privateer and can’t help drawing comparisons between the two men. Where Nikolai’s devotion to duty kept him from the temptations of debauchery, she’s not so sure she can assume the same of his son.

_“A King should see the world, before he can hope to understand his subjects,”_ she can hear Nikolai’s voice in her mind’s ear as clear as if he spoke the words aloud, _“I will not put a man on the throne who does not understand the trials and hardships faced by common men.”_

_“Perhaps,”_ she replies to her imaginary Lantsov King, _“but an illegitimate child, of half royal blood, born on international seas to some common pirate girl, might have a different story to tell.”_

Zoya can only hope that the Prince never discovers the truth of his heritage. Affairs with common girls and illegitimate babes have nothing on the chaos that the existing secrets of the throne could inspire, should they become known to the public.


	2. Ajuna

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alcoholism is the only content warning i can think of, again.
> 
> not my best work. i wrote this in the middle of the night. the days are too hot at the moment for me to think.
> 
> enjoy

Ajuna’s feet hurt, her back aches from puffing her chest out like a proud hen all evening. She can’t help glancing at the drinks tray – she’s kept up a low buzz thus far, but she can’t risk losing her wits. How anybody could find the sticky heat in the hall preferable to the dry chill of the night outside is beyond her. Her underthings cling to her in ways she can’t stand, and two dripping patches of sweat have formed under her arms. She can’t decide whether to be thankful for the layers of fabric barring her stink from the public or peeved that she can’t rip them off and let her skin breathe. Her forehead and chin are slimy. She’s tired and can’t shake her insecurities about how she must look and smell. At least she isn’t in Kerch, where she would be expected to embarrass herself with clammy handshakes.

She has repeated the same phrases so many times they don’t sound like language anymore. She has a story to tell – a fabrication – about why she hasn’t been seen publicly in Ravka for six months. Diplomacy, trade, that sort of thing. There is some truth to it. There has to be because she’s been sighted abroad. Genya had offered to tailor her, but she didn’t like the thought of changing her face. What if she never looked _quite_ like her old self again?

Zoya’s presence is a small comfort, but not the sort that Ajuna craves. There are many secrets between the two of them. More than Zoya could guess, although she is probably deluded about how many of them Ajuna has uncovered already.

Nikolai looks up from the conversation he’s been holding with his wife and catches Ajuna’s eye. He winks. A condescending gesture which she’s too old for but appreciates nonetheless.

“Excuse me, general,” Ajuna says to Zoya and leaves her side.

“Stay out of trouble, your highness,” She replies to her receding back.

Not a high demand. Only a few more hours which she might reasonably spend by her father’s side without causing offence, and she could be alone.

The Queen Consort has had less of a presence in Ajuna’s life than Nikolai. She feels distant but she’s easy to love. Sera is a bubbly, intelligent woman. Her insights are often shockingly honest, but she does not impart them lightly. Ajuna imagines she makes a great intellectual opponent for Nikolai although the two don’t appear to have proper conversations except in the privacy of their quarters.

She approaches Ajuna now, smoothing down her collar and speaking as if she weren’t there, “Oh, he really isn’t meant for these occasions is he, my love?”

Nikolai appears to snap out of a reverie, “He will come of age, soon. This is good practice for a lot more of the same to come.”

Ajuna catches her father’s eye again, hoping to convey something of how uncomfortable all this is making her. She is tired of hearing the wrong name and honorifics. It may be coincidental, or Nikolai might have got the message. He wraps his arm around his wife and pulls her to him. “Dear, would you be an angel and get me a brandy?”

The woman glances between Nikolai and Ajuna and takes the hint. She smiles warmly, “One chip of ice?”

“That’s right,” he lands a kiss on her head and she departs.

The night has reached a point where only the guests looking for more meaningful conversation and perhaps a game of cards are still bothered to impose on the King. Ajuna recognises most of the faces she sees and a great many of them are quite friendly with her father. Even those among them whose policies don’t remotely align with his philosophy. Most likely, they don’t even know it. He has a way of playing people, all the while convincing them he’s their ally in all things. Tricky bastard. Better than duelling for everything, granted.

Nikolai acknowledges his guests as they catch his eye but somehow his gestures politely persuade them not to approach. His tact is marvellous. Ajuna is thankful for the peace.

The silence is a little unsettling, though. She and her father have been at odds ever since the night before her departure half a year ago. She had done something cowardly – confessed something to him right before she was due to be apart from him for a considerable time, so she could escape his reaction. She couldn’t bear to explain herself in writing, nor to face her return to Ravka after so long living another life only for Nikolai to still not truly know her. So, she’d cornered him in his office, her bags already packed, and mumbled and stuttered and sweated through her chamise, as is her custom for difficult conversations. _My life feels like an elaborate lie,_ she said, _my body, my clothes, the way others speak about me… it is like an insult to who I truly am._

He had taken her theatrics and, more importantly, what message they delivered remarkably well, all things considered. It wasn’t fair to him to run away so soon after delivering such a blow to his plans for her future. She had been angry with him at the time, for something entirely unrelated. She now has many months of retrospection to cool her temper. It has calmed to a low simmer.

It is Nikolai who speaks first, “Remember, they’re only people,” his eyes scan the room, “just like you and I, they have hopes and fears, loved ones, enemies, trials and aspirations. They are hardly concerned about you and if they were, what would they have to say? Nothing profound, and nothing they would not gossip about anyway. Breathe, Ajuna.”

They are clearly out of hearing range, but still her anxiety spikes at her father addressing her so. What must he think of her? Things are changing between them, how long before others notice? She feels her control slipping, over how the truth may get out and over how she will be received by the public if it does. She takes Nikolai’s advice and inhales slowly. Her lungs ache, reminding her she has been taking only short, panicked breaths since the night started.

“Having our subjects’ favour is important,” she replies, “you know that more than anyone.”

His hand rests on her shoulder in comfort, “Pleasing everybody is a futile endeavour. Ravka needs people to challenge the social order. Every nation does. Do not be afraid to appear foolish, mad, eccentric or anything else in the pursuit of doing what’s right.”

Easy enough for him. He is an intelligent, attractive, powerful man and has been all his life. Ajuna can’t conjure to mind a single person who is deserving of his regard and who also does not respect him. Admire him, even.

Sera returns with the drink she promised and a glass of dessert wine for herself. She has been in heals for hours but is somehow still light on her feet. She is laughing, clearly still high on a conversation she’d been having. Her gown bounces and sways around her and the bangles on her arm jingle merrily. Nikolai breaks into a smile.

“I quite need to sit down,” she says, “my ailments are demanding my attention, as usual.” Sera has a chronic condition. It is worse on some days than others and the wine must be assisting with pain relief, but she has been standing for too long. It manifests as a near constant pain in her lower abdomen which she must manage as best she can and carry on with her duties despite it. Her strength is admirable.

She coaxes them both into the games room and sits beside Zoya for a game of cards. She isn’t a very good player but nobody’s in any position to comment on her husband looking over her shoulder and whispering advice in her ear. Perhaps not just advice – she is blushing and smiling up at him.

A count who Ajuna doesn’t remember the name of manages to finesse his way to her side. He stands too close, and his breath smells foul.

“Women,” he shakes his head, as if he’d said something profound.

“What about them?” Says Ajuna.

“Oh, they’re delightful creatures. It is quite something to see them leading armies, these days. I cannot be sure of the practicality of it, but any red-blooded man can’t complain, eh, lad?”

Ajuna has to control her expression. The count stares hungrily at Zoya. He better not be caught; she’d flay a man alive for less. That’s not to mention the bold way the man had addressed the Crown Prince. He must have an enviable ego.

“At first, women were recruited out of desperation,” Ajuna says, mastering a patient tone of voice, “there are only so many Grisha willing to serve. Our women have proven to be invaluable to Ravka’s military both in strategy and on the field.”

The man turns to her and gives her a tight smile, before patting her on the back and putting a foot more distance between them.

_Well, I’ve tossed that interaction._ At least now she no longer has to hear what tosh he has to say or smell his breath.

-

Ajuna has survived the party, but not before a drunken minister managed to cuff her on the shoulder much too roughly and lean on her shoulder, drawling things in her ear she’s glad he was too drunk to enunciate properly.

And a middle-aged woman spilt wine on her.

Zoya stormed out of the room after a loss at cards.

Eventually, the remaining guests got too drowsy, drunk or both and everybody was politely rounded out the door.

Solitude, at last.

Ajuna peels off her clothes, scowling at the slimy mess of her undergarments. She takes a quick sponge bath to wash away the sweat, chews on a mint leaf and has as much water as she can stomach in the hopes that the alcohol she’s had won’t affect her sleep.

She barely ate all night, wishing to forego her usual anxious flatulence. She ignores her hunger at present. She will call up a big breakfast in the morning but for now she must address the impressive stack of correspondence glaring at her from her desk.

She could have done this the night before, but she was tired then from her travels. Besides, she’s much too buzzed to get any sleep just yet, despite her exhaustion. She catches herself foolishly imagining if she could receive mail on open seas. Six months of letters is a lot of paperwork to come home to. Many of the political favours they ask for will have since become irrelevant, no doubt.

It is bizarre to be home after so long. Her life here is vastly different from her travels, and not only in the obvious sense. The routine of standing on still ground, sifting through papers, having everything brought to her on a silver tray, lying on such a soft bed and having a different outfit for every occasion – it all feels like a distant, yet familiar memory.

Here, everybody speaks her mother-tongue. She is cared for. She is expected to look and act like a prince. She is treated completely differently than she was amongst friendly travellers. She had gotten used to sleeping beside common men. With them, even. She had gotten comfortable with that life, as much as it is possible to while braving the elements and constantly balancing on the brink of developing scurvy.

‘Propriety’ is a foreign word to sailors. It’s easy enough to pick up that sort of casual intimacy as a traveller in their care. A casual intimacy she knows she will miss. Not to mention, most of the people she has anything to do with in her royal daily life are her senior by a decade at least. She must come of age soon and when she does, she will be expected to have a presence at a great many functions she would rather stay home for.

In Ravka, children may come of age at any time between 16 and 21. A number of factors decide when a child is ready – her education, her responsibilities, her level of independence. Age 20 is late for a royal. With so many duties, Ajuna would have been expected to be initiated into adulthood at 16 or 17. But Nikolai never pressured her to hurry. Ajuna’s 20th birthday approaches, urging her to get a move on. So, she has decided to come of age on her birthday – combine two occasions she’d rather not be the subject of into one.

The prospect is daunting. Unfortunately, duty takes precedence over Ajuna’s comfort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> plot begins properly next chapter.
> 
> I hope my readers are enjoying this work so far! I haven't heard a peep from y'all. the first two chapters are just to get my bearings. things will be more interesting from here on.


	3. The Pedigree Cousins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is a long one folks. took me ages to write because i wasn't sure what to include and what not to, and i'm considering making some extreme changes to the plot that follows from it  
> tws:  
> child abuse and pedophilia are hinted at/discussed  
> slavery is discussed  
> two characters are married with kids and also cousins, and two inbred children are in the scene, one of whom is defective due to her lineage. some politically incorrect language is used to describe her such as 'simple'  
> alcohol is present in the scene, but nobody gets drunk  
> there's a bit of misgendering again, but only at the start from a character who doesn't know about ajuna

Zavrazin has a role in the royal household now, and Nikolai is thankful for the fresh take. She is mercifully not the sort to harass him or his family with talk of conspiracies or tales. Perhaps it’s the boredom of being a privileged male, or the cynicism which ripens with age, which made her predecessors privy to such nonsense.

She is also startlingly unconventional, for someone with her duties. She is quite happy to oblige Ajuna in being her swordswoman opponent. She sits amicably with the family at dinner and says her thanks to the Saints before the meal starts, but she does not mention her Saints again during dinner. She has a supple candour to her words and actions and she’s open and friendly to all the staff, devout or otherwise.

Presently, she falls into lockstep beside her King in the halls of the Little Palace. The main building is used so infrequently these days that it’s more of a function hall than anything. The King never takes offence at his subjects not engaging in complex dances of etiquette; he is only cautious of rude manners which are deliberate. Nevertheless, it is still odd to him that the Priest doesn’t bow to him on arrival. He has come to expect the gesture and is in the midst of pondering what sort of psychological effects such expectations must have on men like him, when she strikes up conversation.

“You look well rested. I was right to insist that you get some sleep,” she says.

“You aren’t the first, I’m afraid. It is simply never high on my agenda,” he smiles down at her. She is quite a bit shorter than he, but her grand robes give her a larger-than-life impression when she stands on the dais. Her hair is always tied neatly back and wound into a cloth, her face shows the first sign of the lines of ageing but her green eyes pierce through and make her seem youthful. The thick ribbons that she ties around the knot of hair and fabric on her head cascade down her back and dance around in the air in a cheerful manner as she moves about.

“Ah, that is where you’re mistaken. Sleep is vital to productivity. You’re no use to anyone when you’re tired.”

“Even less so when I’m unconscious.”

Her laughter is broad and unashamed, and she laughs easily. Nikolai briefly catches the eye of some of the staff turning their heads to smile knowingly in the direction of the echoes as her voice bounces down the tiled walls. “Please, friend, give your soul a rest every now and again! Why, you’re the most overworked man on the continent. Don’t let the stiff shovel of stress dig yourself such an early grave.”

“You’re teetering on treason,” he teases. His words are serious, but his eyes betray humour.

“Where are we going, anyhow?”

“My son’s rooms. We would have caught up yesterday, if I’d not gone so early to bed.”

Zavrazin tuts, “I’m certain your wife didn’t mind.”

That draws a laugh from Nikolai, “No, she certainly did not.”

Zavrazin stops him with a hand on his shoulder, some ten paces down the hall from Ajuna’s study. She looks deeply into his eyes, making him briefly uncomfortable. He keeps still despite the odd shift in atmosphere.

“Your love for him is true, but troubled. Guide him with a light hand, he is wary of his seniors as so many young men tend to be at that age.”

Nikolai swallows around a strange lump in his throat and turns away without a word. He will heed her words.

She calls him to a halt again right before he can manage to knock, “Your majesty, do tell him that I will hear him without judgement, the moment he is ready to part with his troubles. It is why I’m here, after all.”

Nikolai tilts his head obligingly and knocks on his heir’s door.

Ajuna calls out that she’ll only be a moment. There’s a great deal of shuffling around and the door opens. She’s fully dressed in casual finely tailored robes. She smiles awkwardly at him, completely incapable of concealing what she truly feels as always. Nikolai can’t fathom why she is so socially inept. Perhaps she inherited it–

He cuts that thought off right there, as if he might be at risk of having his mind read. The secret is a burden that frightens him, but he is rarely honest about that. The memories of his torment for being a bastard are a haunting reminder. It is imperative that Ajuna’s reign isn’t challenged, when the time comes.

Nikolai gestures around the room, requesting entry.

Ajuna startles into action, apologising and muttering about taking a seat, “Will I order tea?” she asks.

“I am already caffeinated,” he says.

She nods, shifts from foot to foot nervously and then sits back down at her desk. Nikolai perches on the glory box sitting at the foot of her bed.

Nikolai watches her fidget, her hands twisting together and her eyes darting around the room and landing anywhere that avoids Nikolai’s gaze. Something is off. It has been since a few months before her departure. No matter how he racks his brains, he can’t figure out what could have changed to make her so awkward and distant around him and Sera. She could have dug up something she wasn’t meant to know, but it’s tempting to rule it out due to the air-tight way he’d hushed things up. He could only hope he was as thorough as he thought.

He figures he should speak before she tears her hair out, “Your mother and I are glad to have you back.”

“Really?” She says, genuinely surprised.

Nikolai smiles, bemused. “No,” he says, “we despise our only child, obviously.”

She attempts a smile, but her nerves are still obvious in her eyes.

“I had been anticipating your return so that I could talk to you, among many other reasons. I watched my father surpass middle age on the throne and would prefer not to continue to assert my power, the way he did, beyond a certain stage of life. The longer a man lives comfortably behind the palace walls, doted on by lords and servants and advisors, the more he loses touch with current affairs.”

Ajuna goes still quite suddenly. She is looking into her father’s eyes directly now, and her nerves have given way to a more desperate kind of fear, “Please don’t abdicate.”

Nikolai hums, “I just might. But not until you’re ready. It might be time to mentor you. You have your education; you’ve seen the world and you’re of age. No time like the present.”

Ajuna has gone pale, and she looks as if she might be sick.

Nikolai sighs, “You will inherit the throne. There’s nothing for it. You are heir apparent, and your cousins are inbred disasters. You haven’t met them. Believe me, it’s by design. They’re awfully sheltered and have no care for the health of Ravka. They hunger for power, but only for the comforts and status it would bring them. You have a duty to this country whether you like it or not.

“And then there’s the matter of your birthday and coming of age ceremony. We hardly have time to plan, yet we haven’t made up our minds on matters which cannot wait until after. Are you going public about your recent transition to womanhood?”

Ajuna swallows thickly, “I hoped _you_ might know what to do about that.”

“I can’t say I have a lot of experience with that particular public relations conundrum.”

Ajuna rolls her eyes, “It isn’t funny.”

“You’re right, it isn’t,” he says, turning serious, “and it isn’t only about public relations. You have to decide if it would be easier to live with people’s judgement, or with the lie.”

She puts her head in her hands, “Why did this have to happen to me, of all people? Of all the men in Ravka…” she trails off, unsure how to end that sentence.

“Our blood isn’t special,” Nikolai says. “We are the same as any other commoner, save for a bit of their healthy gene diversity. These things are random, and you aren’t exempt. We all have our cross to bear.”

He lets her alone for a little while. His eyes scan her desk – it’s cluttered with open letters, spilled wax, spent inkwells and broken nibs. She must have been at work overnight. She certainly looks tired enough. Nikolai does not reflect fondly on the mountains of paper he would come home to after an expedition as Sturmhond. He has always been a diligent worker, but even he had caved and fallen asleep at his desk with his head in his arms on a few occasions in his youth, when the broken pieces of Ravka had to be mended after the war and he was still not fully settled in Os Alta.

“I won’t rule until I marry,” she says, breaking the tense silence.

Nikolai raises his brow. He had not expected that.

“I can only hope it might make me a more appealing monarch and compensate for what I am lacking.”

“And what would that be?”

“Nerve. Confidence. Sociability.”

“You tear yourself apart over these things, but you are perfectly polite and engaging when you must entertain. You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

“Nothing like you, though.”

Nikolai grinned, “Who would you marry? I can’t say I’m certain what the expectations would be for you to take a spouse. Would you have to marry a woman, or a man? I suppose it is up to the courts to decide, but I warn you that the debate will most certainly be ugly, and I imagine that whoever you choose would have to be consort.”

Ajuna groans, “I hadn’t thought of that. How did you decide to marry my mother?”

“I didn’t, really. I had many suitors, she just happened to be the one who fit.”

“Fit, how?”

\--

Nikolai had dined with his cousins before, but not as King, and not on their terms.

What struck him first about them was their pride in the intricate, cross-weaving web of their family tree which was, to anybody with sense, quite disturbing.

They were evidence of the truly tragic measures wealthy families would go to in order to stay in power and produce heirs which might someday inherit the wealth of distant relatives. The entire household were descendants of the male Lantsov line. Bogatyr Lantsov was Nikolai’s great uncle, who had two sons, which were the two respective fathers of the heads of the household currently sat at either end of the grand table in the dining hall of their massive, overrun estate. To keep the Lantsov line firmly in the family, Maya Lantsov and Dominik Lantsov were betrothed from the moment Maya was born, and Dominik was, shockingly, already of age.

Nikolai was seated to Dominik Lantsov’s right, and Sera opposite, to the lord’s left. Nikolai hadn’t meant to drag her into this. He had an appreciation for obligatory social conventions, and he knew he must take a suitor with him to dissuade Maya Lantsov from blatantly matchmaking him with her daughter. Of the eager queue of suitors – Ladies of considerable land and political power, princesses, daughters of Kerch Merchants, noblewomen, etcetera – Sera was the least deserving of this terrible ordeal but unfortunately also the only women among many which Nikolai could trust not to make a public spectacle of it.

The lady of the house loved the harpsichord. She had a musician hired as a member of the household who played the saints-forsaken instrument almost all night. He was in an adjoining music room, plucking endlessly, mono-dynamically away. It became apparent that the causes of the family’s lack of wits were twofold. Nikolai marvelled at the children’s restraint for not banging their heads against the walls in time with the incessant music.

And children, they certainly were. The girl might have been of age, but she was quite clearly simple. Nikolai didn’t like to pity the handy-capped, but her situation was particularly awful. Her younger brother, Mikhail, sat beside her, equally deficient but in aspects which did not hurt his parents’ esteem of him. The dynamic between the two of them was concerning, and apparent to Nikolai from very early on.

Maya’s put-on received accent pierced the air over the shrill of the harpsichord, “Our dear Ivanna is looking well, don’t you think?”

She did not look well. She was thin, and it was obvious she had been dressed up like a doll for the evening. “Lovely,” said Nikolai, “ _children_ are a delight,” the obvious emphasis on the word was either lost on the hosts, or they entirely ignored it.

Ivanna’s brother smacked her hand. “Look up at him, halfwit,” he said. It was not the first time he had boosted his own ego at her expense, that evening. Nor the last.

She looked up, clearly so used to the abuse that it barely registered. But her entire posture transformed, shrinking away from him.

Maya’s laugh rang shrill, superficial and horribly jarring. “Oh, where he gets these insults, I have no idea,” she wrinkled her nose with the effort, but she said, “our daughter is the sort of creature who is most agreeable once you get to know her.”

“No fan of strange company,” said Dominik. It was the first words he’d spoken since they’d made introductions.

His wife did not look impressed. Dominik only caught her evil glare and stared dumbly back at her.

“She is _perfectly fine_ around _small_ parties of strangers like yourselves. She would make for a lovely sight in court.”

The words were so misplaced, and so bold, Nikolai couldn’t help but catch Sera’s eye. She was concealing a smile behind her napkin.

Nikolai wondered if she might catch his next joke, “Who picked the wine?”

Dominik leaned forward in his chair eagerly, “It is a fine vintage. Papa purchased it before he passed, bless him. Worth my left kidney, no doubt about it,” He nodded to himself, satisfied. “No doubt.”

The twinkle in Sera’s eye gave away the laughter she was barely containing. The wine pairing was _awful,_ and the fact it was worth a pretty penny was hilarious. Clearly the man was either mistaken, he had been cheated or he stored his wines in terrible conditions. It was overripe, and much too thick with tannins for the delicate fish and roast.

The amusement the two silently shared died quickly.

“Maks, dear, come!” Said Mrs. Lantsov, quite out of the blue. A boy in the house staff uniform dragged his feet over to her side. He must have been pre-pubescent. “This is Maxim. He’s going to run off and be our little messenger to the kitchens to get dessert on the way.”

“Bought his indenture last fortnight,” said Dominik.

Mikhail snickered. He regarded the other boy with a strange look of combined jealousy and amusement.

“Poor dear. They sterilise them now, d’you know?”

That was an odd relief. Perhaps he was older than he looked.

“Well, some of them. We rescued him from some farm job or other,” She pinched his cheeks, “He’s a pretty thing. Hard to resist.”

Dominik looked even more jealous than his son. The man was ageing horribly. He’d lost his hair and his teeth were rotting. His wife was a good two decades younger than him. Nikolai was under no illusions about what exactly the appeal was in a young boy joining the household to entertain Maya.

She pinched his cheek, “Run and tell the chef we’re ready, hm?”

The boy kept staring ahead for a moment. The look of humiliation on his face seemed to satisfy Mikhail, who returned to his meal. Then the boy numbly turned around and headed towards the kitchens.

Sera was resolutely staring at Nikolai, like she expected him to do something. She seemed very uncomfortable, so Nikolai got over himself and looked her in the eye, attempting to convey to her from across the table that there was nothing much to be done about it. She clearly didn’t buy it but dropped her gaze.

Dessert was fruitcake and marzipan. The children showed their dislike for it by not even touching it.

The heads of house were so absorbed in their hideous dessert that silence dominated the entire course save for the clinking of cutlery, the awful sound of Maya sloppily chewing with her mouth open like a bloodhound, and the harpsichord which Nikolai was a hair’s-breadth away from throwing something at.

Once Maya had tucked away her entire dessert, she ordered everybody up and into the games room for cards. She sent the children to bed, and Maxim was dragged along to deal. He was surprisingly deft with the cards. Nikolai suspected this was a routine occurrence for him.

Both heads of house were terrible sports. At some point, a loudly barked argument started up between the two of them, and Nikolai and Sera had enough cover to hold a quiet conversation behind the confusion of the harpsichord and the shouting match.

“Are they the only Lantsovs left?” Sera said.

“The very last, unless we are to believe any of the pretenders. And they’re bent on producing as many more in their line as they can.”

“ _Imagine_ what their reign would look like.”

“No, thank you.”

The evening carried on late into the night. It was two bells before Nikolai could politely find an opening to leave, and then another half hour of forced conversation before he managed to prize himself and Sera out of the estate.

They gratefully fell into their carriage seats, silent for the first ten minutes of the journey.

It was some time before Nikolai came up with an apology which wouldn’t sound desperate or give away his intentions.

“That wasn’t fair of me, to do that to you,” Nikolai said.

“No, it wasn’t,” said Sera, “But you did warn me. It was my decision to be here.”

His mind reeled for a response to that and found no purchase in time for Sera’s next speech.

“I’m not a fool, Nikolai. I know what your intentions are with me. I want you to know that I see that you care about your country deeply, and so do I. Your family changes nothing. The stakes are higher than I bargained for, but I will still accept your proposal, when you finally ask me.”

The bluntness of her words shocked him, but he could read sincerity in her tone. He realised that he respected her. Love might be a bit of a stretch but who knows what the future would bring.

“Since we’re being honest, I confess that one of my reasons for bringing you here was to see how you would handle the situation. I don’t _only_ need a wife, and a mother to my heir, but also a partner. I won’t marry a woman who I cannot trust to be my equal, consort or not.”

“Well, did I pass your test?”

“Oh, I won’t divulge my plans that easily,” he said, cheekily.

“What about that boy?” She had clearly become impatient waiting for an opening to ask about him.

Nikolai sighed, “Well, what would you suggest?”

She looked mildly angry, “You know the law better than I do. Isn’t that sort of thing illegal in Ravka?”

“He isn’t technically a slave, and Lady Lantsov confessed nothing.”

“So, you’ll let it slide that easily?”

Nikolai tapped his leg restlessly and turned his head to watch the vague shadows fly past the carriage in the dark. Only a small gas lamp lit the dark polished wood and velvet linings. It was hard to read his expression.

Sera barely suppressed the urge to snap him out of it. She would struggle to respect a man who sat idly by when he had the power to save a trapped soul.

When he finally got his words in order, he spoke barely loud enough to be heard over the rumbling of the cartwheels.

“I never truly had any right to the throne. I was Ravka’s last resort, and I made the most of it. Technically, Duke and Lady lantsov have more right to it than I do. As it stands, they may challenge me, but I doubt they will have the public’s favour, or that of the church. Our relationship is precarious. I must be diplomatic because the moment I pose a threat to them I will be called a tyrant and my reputation can be quickly turned against me. I will not give them the opportunity to sully my name. I am immensely sorry to the sacrifices that will take, but so be it.”

He would not meet her eye, and she couldn’t blame him for it. To her, it was a feeble excuse.

“I will be your queen, on one condition.”

He turned towards her but stared at her shoes instead of her face. A small smile played on his lips; he could guess what she would say.

“If I see anything that disturbs me like that did, during our reign, you will grant me the right to deal with it how I see fit.”

He looked up at her now. She could tell from his expression that she had said exactly the right thing, “I will never challenge your conviction, Miss Sera. I accept your terms, of course. Will you be my wife?”

She blanched, forgetting herself for a moment. She hadn’t expected him to ask for some time yet. She felt something pressed into her hand and when she looked down, the Lantsov Emerald sat in her palm.

Less than two months later, a bill was proposed in court to increase the legal age for servants and house staff to sixteen. It was passed quietly and was known only amongst court officials to be the first act by the Queen Consort which would enforce her rank at the right hand of her King.

\--

The sun is still rising over the walls of the inner-city grounds. Rays are just peaking over the lowest tree-tops, filtering through Ajuna’s lead-lined windowpanes and dancing across the opposite wall in the shadows cast by gently swaying leaves. Dust motes drift in the air and her eyes catch on them; Nikolai patiently pauses at the end of his tale for her to refocus.

“No pressure, then,” says Ajuna.

“There’s a reason I waited until you come of age to burden you with it.”

“I love Sera,” Ajuna begins, and it occurs to Nikolai that she has begun to refer to the woman differently – _Sera_ , rather than _mama_. A faint suspicion that she may know more than she lets on begins to bubble in his awareness, to fret about later. “But now I think I understand what you saw in her.”

“Her brilliant and lovely qualities have not diminished. I still see it.” He smiles to himself, a private joke playing in his mind which he mercifully doesn’t air to Ajuna.

Ajuna isn’t sure how to phrase what she means to say next, and it shows on the play of her features. She fiddles with a loose thread on her cuff, gnawing at her lip and avoiding her father’s eyes. She finally draws a deep breath, drawing resolve almost visibly from the gilded morning air. “There is little consideration for what I want.”

Nikolai is briefly grateful that she is too intent on avoiding his gaze to catch his expression. “I know. It is our reality. I learned it the hard way at a young age, but nothing truly prepared me for the conflict of wishing the best for my own, but also for the health of Ravka. The two approaches are only rarely in agreement.”

Ajuna shrugged. “You are right. If I were coming of age during a war, like yourself, I would not stop to consider what I wanted for myself. My devotions should be no different simply because we are currently at peace.”

Nikolai inclined his head in agreement, “Forgive my cynicism but, in my experience, peace does not last long. If not war, then injury to our precarious trade agreements, bad diplomacy, pestilence or natural disasters are just as likely to strike.”

As the country recovers from war and rebuilds, famine and lack of medical aid and shelter are the factors contributing to the most strife. Nikolai battles to return his focus to the current conversation, and to not let it drift to council meetings. Which reminds him, “You should sit in council meetings. You really should have built up the habit when you turned sixteen, but your adventures took your focus and I couldn’t deny you that. You don’t have to say anything at first. Just learn your country. She’s a tricky beast to know.”

Ajuna nodded stiffly.

“I’ll train you, and perhaps some of the daunting burden your reign imposes on you will lift.”

“I will try, but…” She pauses, and Nikolai awaits while she orders her thoughts. “You should know that I’m upset with you, for something I am not certain I can forgive, nor talk about, at this time.”

Nikolai frowns, the same expression he often pulls when there are many things he’d like to say, but he’s wise enough not to. He rises, urges Ajuna to turn her attentions to coming of age, and parts from her company with these words: “Do not forget that you have secrets from me as well. See that you don’t let your silent disdain make you rash or unfairly cruel.”

At any other age, Ajuna would have been irritated by Nikolai imparting one of his neat bits of wisdom at a time like this. Nikolai notes with some pride that she merely nods once and averts her gaze. Perhaps things can be mended, with time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i may look over this again in the morning and edit it. i had to insert names last-minute because i'm too absorbed in writing to come up with them as i write, so i normally just put placeholders in until i can be bothered to use a name generator lmao.
> 
> kudos and comments motivate me to keep writing, and this story is far from finished

**Author's Note:**

> kudos and comments keep me motivated, so don't be shy!


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